Thousand Shrine Warrior

by Jessica Amanda Salmonson

  He hugged her more dearly, his cheek against hers, and slid the sword forward with such care that the mare was oblivious. She began breathing louder, harder. Her heart was pierced, yet death was not sudden. His bloody sword came out with equal cunning; the mare suspected nothing but her own growing tiredness. Her weak legs shook, but it was as though she were shamed by her own unsteadiness and refused to fall. She blew hard through her nostrils; blood and mucus sprayed Ittosai’s back, but he was unconcerned with that. The mare’s front knees buckled and her back legs followed. Ittosai went to his own knees, still holding the head. The mare rolled slowly to her side, still pumping wind, and Ittosai lay her head gently on the snow. Her round, brown eyes watched Ittosai stand; but after that, it did not seem that she could see. She blew twice more, without much blast, and offered not the least death throe, but died relaxed.

  Ittosai cleaned his blade in snow then strode away, his face an unchalked slate.

  Mirume, the maiden knocked from the castle’s mesa wall and rescued from the moat by a passing nun, had known sorrows throughout her life. To tell them all would be too piteous and, what’s more, would be too dull; for many of the most wretched lives are of a kind that hold little interest for outsiders. But it helps to comprehend her mother’s acute anguish when one considers that she could give her only daughter such an unflattering name as Mirume, the same name as a female witness in Hell. Perhaps the mother thought the name was auspicious; perhaps she could think of nothing but the hellishness of the world her daughter had been born to. The name was conferred at the mother’s dying breath; an eerie legacy. Mirume was to bear the burden of having killed her mother by daring to be born. A more unfilial child could not be imagined; there were those who kept telling her this was so, though if truth be told, it was desperation and not pregnancy that weakened her mother’s will to live.

  Her mother had been lowborn but, by all accounts, beautiful; and her beauty proved a curse. Having found herself attractive to, and attracted by, a comely samurai, she gave in without thought of the day of abandonment, without considering the cruelty of a family loath to raise a bastard. When fatherless and motherless Mirume was old enough, and it was noticed that her beauty developed along the lines of her mother’s, she was hauled away to the castle and offered as a servant. “She’s a samurai’s bastard,” they said, and exchanged her for this or that; and never after did they communicate with Mirume.

  Yet life became more joyous, if only for a short while. She found herself in the employ of Lord Sato’s gentle daughter, graceful and angelic (until she became ill), whose mother had been of royal extraction, descended from Amaterasu the Sun Goddess. Mirume felt only adoration for the beautiful princess; and she felt compassion, for the princess had lost her mother, too. No service was a nuisance if Echiko benefited by the least degree. The hardest task was a wonderful occasion.

  Her daily company consisted of numerous castle women, some bright, some foolish, some severe. She was the junior of all of them and easily pushed about; but she did not mind. She loved her new clothing, learning proper manners, sharing and criticizing one another’s poetry, the composition of which Lady Echiko encouraged. If she were looked down upon for her uncertain origins, and made to work harder than anyone else on account of her youth and willingness, this was nothing compared to the hardships imposed upon her while in the charge of lowborn relatives who despised her, beat her, and blamed her for her mother’s death.

  Lady Echiko was so far above Mirume that it was absurd to think of such a superior individual as an older sister. Yet secretly, she did so. This bold fantasy was built upon, month by month, in many imaginative directions. The young handmaiden began to conceive of the princess as a glimmering presence, mysterious and seraphlike, a bodhisattva sent to Naipon for the express purpose of being patron and savior to Mirume.

  She worshipped Lady Echiko, and surely this was noticed; but possibly there were those who felt it was Echiko’s due, for taking in an untrained orphan.

  Beneath this venerational exterior, Mirume retained, in her secret existence, the original belief that she was Echiko’s little sister. Despite a humble outward attitude, Mirume was something of a megalomaniac. Sister to a goddess, indeed! Beneath her the universe depended. Her prayers were heard in Heaven more loudly than the prayers of others. Her influence was profound though so subtle none could see it.

  Such egoism has few rewards, if one begins to see the shape the world is in, truly believing in one’s own influence on the matter. She already felt that she had caused her mother’s death; why not be the source of all pain everywhere? Mirume suppressed all aspects of her fantasy that were dark and sad. She was able to maintain a brighter perspective, an almost hysterical inner happiness, which rarely betrayed itself.

  A blissful view of things was soon to become dented. A shadow fell across her world. Mirume’s prayers would not disperse it. A beautiful priest named Kuro had appeared, devoid of past, and his strong efforts in behalf of ailing Echiko failed to push away the night. Rather, his presence somehow increased the world’s gloom, and Echiko’s sickness. Mirume sometimes looked askance at Kuro, when he came to chant the Lotus Sutra in the dead of night. He was less beatific when he didn’t know that he was watched.

  In her dreams, maggots seethed at the sockets of Kuro’s oozing eyes. Gravesoil impacted his ears and mouth. His hands were not held in prayer and were no longer graceful. They were spidery claws picking out Mirume’s hairs one by one, while she lay perfectly still, afraid to shout. From this dream she would always awake in stark, wide-eyed silence.

  Lady Echiko grew pale. She grew thin. Life became cold and frightful in the women’s quarters. Other ladies-in-waiting enclosed themselves in shells of quietude. Echiko was dying, but no one would admit it. The nightly services of Kuro brought Echiko no peace. Echiko was horrified by his visits, but none confessed to seeing this was so. In their minds at least, the other women had abandoned their mistress, however close they hovered. There were exceptions, especially Mirume, whom Echiko in her weakness began to cherish most. But what could a girl do but comfort and adore? Heaven no longer listened.

  Mirume was hopelessly in love with her mistress. To see the princess waste away was to see her own world melting. When came that evening when Mirume was pressed from the wall, it was almost a blessing, for Echiko had willed it. Death, thought Mirume, would be absolute. Pain would be negated.

  Then she awakened in the arms of a warrior goddess. She was borne up to Heaven in those arms.

  Later, when she realized she was not in Buddha’s paradise, she was not disappointed. She had been resurrected. A miracle had occurred. What jubilation was in her! She alone, of all the people of Naipon, was aware that two goddesses lived upon the land. Princess Echiko was one. The other traveled in the guise of an esoteric nun.

  Mirume was driven deeper into her fantasies, finding beauty where none existed.

  The workings of her mind were at once unfathomable and precious. The brunt of her belief was that Echiko, a supernatural presence, could be saved from this consumptive ailment by commerce with a heavenly peer. If Mirume could bring the two goddesses together, what would be the result? Miracles, no doubt! Echiko would recover. She would ascend to Heaven on moonbeams or in a chariot of gold, drawn by seven winged oxen and a god of noble bearing for groom.

  Since Mirume was to be instigator of this miraculous meeting between lady-gods—the humble candle that ignited wonderful events—surely she would be rewarded. She would be taken up to Heaven also, to sit forever at the knee of Echiko-no-kami, Goddess Echiko, Mirume’s private patron.

  Such fancy was never voiced and so was never contradicted. None suspected Mirume was mad. Perhaps she was not mad at first, but only distracted by personal worlds that buffered her from the reality that her own mother had been unable to face. But harmless escape grew in bounds until Mirume truly did not know where dreams began and ended. Horror might surround her and make her sad; but somehow it was bearable, and often it
was rendered pleasurable. The worst event could be turned merrily askew in her reviewing of the subject.

  This being so, she had a calm and, some might falsely assume, rational response when Echiko’s heart’s desire blundered through a wall, from a passage none had known existed. To her mind it could be viewed only in terms of good fortune. Who else did Echiko wish to see but Heinosuke? Why shouldn’t he issue from a wall if Echiko required it?

  She could not help but see his eyes, one a healed and empty socket, the other freshly slashed and gory, the orb swollen in two directions. Ladies-in-waiting screamed with shock and fright over the bloody, unexpected, horrid visitation; but Mirume rejoiced. She took Heinosuke’s hand and with tears of happiness led the blind man to Echiko’s bedside.

  Here her memory faltered. For one thing, she had no idea why no guards rushed in or why the ladies-in-waiting ceased shouting and running about, or even where they went. Everyone of lesser importance merely disappeared from Mirume’s perceptions of the world. There was only Heinosuke, Lady Echiko, and their devoted witness Mirume.

  The dismal reunion yet touched Mirume’s heart, causing her to blush and turn away, there being things a discreet witness does not seem to observe. Echiko was heartened and made stronger. Heinosuke’s plight filled her with certainty and power. She rose from her deathbed, performing this and that, Mirume could not recall what all. Though there was little muscle left between her flesh and bone, color returned to her cheeks, and a semblance of her previous beauty.

  The princess convinced Heinosuke they should escape together, die together if need be. Heinosuke was pliant to every suggestion, being blind and being helpless and being somewhat crazed.

  Mirume helped Echiko bind Heinosuke’s injury, a clean and colorful strip of cloth around his face. How pretty it was! When Heinosuke and Echiko went into the maze beneath the castle, Mirume went after, uninvited but not told to go back. What the vassals might do come morning, finding Echiko missing, Mirume did not know, did not care. For now she fancied freedom and a wondrous outcome. Everything struck her as proceeding quite well and in accordance with a divine plan she had always known would come to pass.

  Mirume’s previous efforts to find that other goddess, who had saved her life, had been unfruitful. Now she was confirmed to greater efforts by praying intensely in whatever retreat she, Echiko, and Heinosuke might find. “Neroyume kami!” she would pray. “Neroyume kami! The Witness of Hell calls thee from thy slumber!” Surely the warrior-nun would hear, and come. Face to face with Lady Echiko, any miracle could be effected, including the restoration of Heinosuke’s sight.

  So much had become invested in her fanciful view of possibilities that the inevitable collapse of her imaginary world might well unleash the full measure of her insanity. For, supposing she arranged the very meeting she expected would solve the woes of the world, what could be achieved but disillusion and disappointment? The ill would remain ill. The blind would still be blind. And Mirume would witness, in the end, the immutability of life’s tragedies, great and small.

  Nothing could surprise her until that future moment when reality impinged. In the meantime, all things fit into her visionary arrangement. The most shocking situation could be shifted into a better light. A jumbled mass of horror, to her eyes, lacked the least aspect of chaos.

  Thus it did not give her pause or wonder to pass through passages beneath the ground. Echiko acted as though she knew the way, although this could not be so; yet Mirume took it for granted that Echiko knew much. Heinosuke was utterly confused and uncertain of direction. The path chosen by Echiko was contrary to the one he had known. But in his blindness and pain, he hardly questioned how Echiko came by such certainty of their route.

  The way was arduous, wearisome, and peculiar. There was no candle, no lantern, yet Echiko led safe passage. Hours might have passed; in darkness, who could tell? At length they arrived in a hollow chamber and from there proceeded upward to the light. It was well into day. Mirume saw that they had exited a mausoleum in a graveyard. Hovering before them, shrouded by mist and blanketed by snow, the Temple of the Gorge stood among sentinel cedars. In that horrid place, Echiko sought sanctuary.

  At first Mirume would not enter. She stood outside, alone, calf-deep in snow, gazing at the rooftop. A chasm of suffering and realization struggled for control of her mind, but she refused to be drawn into sanity. Such sanity would not be bolstered by anything strong and would not endure; and her next madness might well be less passive and disguised.

  Emboldening herself, she entered the temple and helped skeletal Echiko arrange a section in the vast hall for Heinosuke’s comfort. A blasted Buddha sat at the head of the hall; it was not a comforting statue. Rubbish lay all about.

  Together Mirume and Echiko nursed Heinosuke—an insufficient nursing, to be sure—and when he asked, in his delirium, “Where are we?” Echiko replied, “This is White Beast Shrine,” easing Heinosuke’s struggles.

  Mirume had never heard her mistress lie before. She refused to hear it now. As Heinosuke fell into uneasy sleep, Mirume wandered outside into the Buddhist cemetery and strove with all her heart to see it as a Shinto garden. Whatever Echiko said, to Mirume it was truth. How horrible the garden! How horrible was Shinto! She had never noticed it before.

  She ventured near the cliff and rearranged her memory so that White Beast Shrine seemed always, as she recalled, to sit beside the gorge. Lady Echiko was wandering also, leaving Heinosuke to his fevered rest and striding through the graveyard cum garden. Mirume did not see where the princess wandered. Mirume was too busy pursuing her own hopeless plan. She fell to her knees upon the cliff’s edge and began to pray in a loud voice so that she might be heard above the roar of the falls. She would pray all day if she must. She would pray all night as well.

  She prayed to Neroyume, begging her to wake from slumber and hurry to the aid of one and all.

  Neroyume listened.

  She had thought to camp the night at the foot of the cliffs, then climb to the temple in the safety of morning’s light. She built a small fire to push away the mist and cold, settling against a depression in the wall, out of the snow, snuggled in the repellant quilt. Thus relaxed, she raised her right hand out from under the ratty coverlet to see her swollen knuckles and wrist. The swelling had never been so bad. Numb from cold, her hands actually ached less than she was used to; but they looked worse.

  She couldn’t quite straighten the fingers. She could make a fist, but not a tight one. She drew the hand under the quilt, then inside her kimono, and found a long, thin scarf. She brought this out and, with teeth and hands, tore the cloth in half. She wrapped each hand so that only the fingers poked out. Then she coddled her hands, one inside the other, hidden from her sight, against the warmth of her body. The look upon her face was one of calm relinquishment. She had passed beyond complaint regarding the impermanence of life, vigor, and her own two hands.

  The drone of the giant falls engulfed her senses. As she was drifting into slumber, her eyes suddenly opened. She looked out from the cubby in the wall. She thought she had heard someone yelling. She stood, dropping her traveler’s quilt, and stepped away from the base of the cliff, onto packed snow. Though she looked upward, she could see only the swirling mists of the gorge, dimly aglow. The sound of river and falls made her uncertain of any other noise.

  The gorge-spirits, for fear of her Sword of Okio, had struck a bargain with her; so it was unlikely they would toy with her senses now that she was near to leaving their domain. Yet who would be shouting the name of Neroyume into the gorge? As her concentration intensified, it was more and more certain that someone had altered one or another sutra, inserting her Buddhist name into the prayer.

  More annoyed than curious—for the bikuni hated to be revered—she covered her campfire with snow and took to the cliff’s face. She had camped at a point of relatively easy climbing, the same place where she had descended a couple of days earlier; so the way was familiar. Yet her swollen, numb fingers we
re occasionally uncertain of their grip; and enough snow clung to the crags that her straw boots sometimes slipped.

  Soon she came above the level of mist, as a diver rises from the sea. She saw the cliff’s upper ledge against a striking, starry sky.

  A young woman knelt dangerously near the dropoff, shouting her obnoxious recitation.

  Tomoe Gozen’s incognito-hat hung loose at her back. Her extra shoes hung at her belt. Her vest fluttered in the night wind and her swords’ sheaths stuck down in back like two tails, one long, one short. Her straw-booted feet found a firm protrusion. Her hands clung to a pair of thick roots. She leaned far back in order to shout to the maiden:

  “Stop that at once!”

  In response, the maiden skipped a single beat in order to peer downward, then took up her chant with greater insistence, albeit with hoarse voice due to having shouted for long, desperate hours. She rubbed palms together in exceeding earnest, as though fearful Neroyume might sink again into the mist if the prayer were the least insincere or inadequate.

  “I said stop it!” the nun called, climbing as quickly as was feasible. “I’m not Buddha!”

  It was the maiden Mirume, who the bikuni had caused to be dragged from the moat of Sato Castle. Tomoe Gozen had hoped to avoid her, having heard a young lady-in-waiting had been asking after the esoteric nun. Whether the girl felt gratitude or required some favor, the bikuni wanted no conference. When she climbed onto the snow-slick ground atop the gorge, panting from the climb, she remained on all fours and glowered at the maiden until she ceased the prayer. Mirume pointed toward the temple, as though a simple gesture was enough to answer all uncertainty.

  “Why are you here?” growled Tomoe. Mirume’s eyes grew round when she heard the edge of anger.

  “Lady Echiko,” said meek Mirume, “brought Heinosuke.”